


Lost in Translation

by nessundorma345 (wastrelwoods)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hulk With Braids, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, Slightly crack, Space Vikings are Weird, We're Not In Kansas Anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/nessundorma345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dealing with a live-in promo for an ancient and largely isolationist culture with more diplomatic immunity than most people who are not qualified ambassadors should have is just one of the many challenges that Earth's Mightiest Heroes face on a daily basis. And they love Thor, really they do, but sometimes he is six feet three inches of pure alien. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Translation

He doesn't quite fit in.

And this, coming from a guy who still mistakes the microwave oven for a radio, is pretty rich. But Thor brings culture shock to an entirely different level, and besides it only took Steve a week to figure out the basics behind the television remote--mostly because Tony had spent most of that time trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh in the most blatantly obvious display of insubordination possible, but he definitely deserves some credit.

Steve halts just outside the living room door, squinting in worry at the sound of shattering glass. "Thor?" 

There's a hammer embedded in the television screen, true, but more immediately concerning is Thor himself, clad in nothing but a blinding smile.

"Good morrow, Captain!" he calls enthusiastically, arms spread wide and _everything_ is hanging out on display and Steve almost chokes, cheeks reddening as he makes a mental note to talk to Fury about cultural sensitivity training or...something.

*

They get over the whole smashing-cups thing pretty quickly, because there seems to be no way short of aversion therapy to put an end to it and besides, it isn't as if Stark hasn't done worse things while drunk.

Still, they make a concentrated effort to steer both of them away from bars during charity events.   
   
*

Here's the best part, the part that gets really rich that everyone tends to forget until the worst possible moment: they live with an alien, true, but sometimes they also fight his brother. 

The Loki that Clint's been shooting arrows at while everyone does their best to cover him and not be turned into frogs or decomissioned entirely like Hulk-- who's still green but beyond that has ceased to resemble anyone but Bruce-- vanishes _again_ in a shower of flamboyant golden sparkles. Bruce sighs, wrapping the firefighter's offered jacket tighter around his narrow shoulders and feeling more like the wicked witch of the west than anything, and waits for the bright flash that will accompany the villian's reapprearance. 

 _It's too early for this_ , he thinks with a put-upon sigh, then narrows his eyes. "Hey, guys? Ten 'o clock, I think." 

Tony makes a confused sort of whine, at least partially because he's busy holding up a collapsed office building. "How the hell--"

"There you are, brother! I had wondered why you sent a double ahead," Thor crows, and everyone just sort of blinks, Natasha in that way that means they're all in for a serious debriefing about witholding pertinent information. 

Loki tosses the intricate braid over one shoulder, demurring to God-knows-who with a modest smile. "I could hardly be seen in such a shambles, especially in battle." 

"You had to finish _braiding your hair_ first, huh?" 

"Of course, Stark." He turns a bemused look on Iron Man, then snaps the butt end of his spear up to plant firmly in Thor's stomach without even doing him the courtesy of looking. "I am not a _heathen_."

"Thor doesn't do that," Bruce interjects, interest piqued. "Does Thor do that?" 

Loki levels a terrifyingly judgemental bitch-face back at him and hey, Bruce can't help the whole green thing, that was his fault anyway. He narrows his eyes instead, like he's inviting the Other Guy back for seconds, and Loki backs down a little. 

"Yeah, takes him five seconds to suit up and half an hour to comb out those luscious locks," Barton drawls over the comms, which would explain a lot. "Hey, does that make hair insults Serious Business to you guys?" 

From under the collapsing building, Tony groans audibly. "I think this might be a drunk dream. Except everyone is wearing pants, so maybe not." The rest of the team ignores him. 

Natasha delivers a flawless roundhouse kick to Loki's face, at which point he thankfully stops whipping Thor with the spear. "Hawkeye, please don't provoke the viking diety unless it's strictly necessary."

"It is absolutely necessary," the archer argues, "That weave is basic as hell!"

*

Clint and Tony have a betting pool going on whether or not it's all some ridiculous prank the two of them have set up. Clint says that it has to be legit because they're siblings, and if they ever actually ganged up he's pretty sure the entire universe would collapse like a cardboard box introduced to Hulk's meaty green foot. Apparently as a sibling, he knows about that sort of thing. Also, he claims, no one could play the long game for _that_ long, immortal or no. 

As the resident long-game prankster (he's been chipping away at Cap's stoic heterosexuality with lewd comments about his backside for years now), Tony calls bullshit. But quietly, because he still remembers the mournful kicked-puppy look Thor had leveled at him the last time he so much as considered swearing in front of Natasha. Something about "the gentility of the fairer sex", which was total bullshit, and she wasn't helping, playing along with a wide-eyed, questioning, innocent look because she was determined to be Tony's worst nightmare. Forbidden to swear in his own goddamn tower, that was how sad his life had become. But you didn't cross Thor. That face was the face animals made in commercials for the SPCA. Even Pepper's shame-face could not compare. Rogers' disappointed face might have been worse, though. 

He can't pinpoint exactly what the deal was, really, because everyone swore over comms; even the good captain got a little spicy with his vocabulary mid-mission. There was only so long you could bash in Doombot heads or dodge animated dinosaur skeletons before your mood started to flag and a couple of choice words slipped out. And even if Thor never joined in with Clint's sailor streak of cusses or Steve's growled 'damnit' or Tony's frantic 'sonofaBITCH', the double standard was decidedly uncool. 

And yeah, he agrees with Barton that things were probably different at Viking Camp, that was immediately obvious due to a couple archaic turns of phrase, a penchant for capes, and hair too glorious to be real. But it's just getting ridiculous now, and cultural differences should only be able to stretch so far as an excuse. 

"The battlefield is a different matter," Thor explains, as Tony sulks and wishes his feet were touching the floor, for dignity's sake if nothing else. "There, we are all warriors, and what words are spoken matter little so long as our deeds are honorable. Now, she is a lady, and you will mind your speech."

'Like hell I will', is what he really wants to say, but he settles for a mute nod. Thor sets him down gently, teeth set in a bright grin. 

Behind him, Natasha smirks into her coffee, like the vindictive bitch that she is. Tony has to stick it out, because she has _knives_ and does terrible things with her thighs to people that cross her. "Lady my ass," Tony mutters darkly, but not before Thor's out of earshot.

*

"I really don't see how this is a problem, Tony."

"He won't stop! We keep telling him that there are things we _just don't need to know_ , and he just keeps doing it. Said something vague about honor--"

Pepper crosses her arms, leaning back on the stool with her best I-am-a-CEO glare. "You are aware that this sounds exactly like the sort of thing you would do." 

"Yeah, but every night?" Pepper looks incredulous, and he amends, "Like, at least three times a night."

Blinking a little rapidly at the prospect, she frowns. "And you can't kick them out of the tower."

"Are you kidding? The only thing worse than a slob in their heirarchy is a bad host. I'm pretty sure murder is more socially acceptable then turning him out, and honestly, Potts, it might come to that." 

A tense silence follows the threat, during which Pepper sips thoughtfully at her drink and Tony tries out his best balefully mournful puppy eyes, which she thinks he's probably actually learned from Thor. "Does Doctor Foster mind?" 

"Only if he forgets to put on pants first--oh, shit, not again, it's two in the goddamn morning," he moans, as the sounds of heavy footsteps echo in the hallway. 

"Congratulate me, my friends, for the Lady Jane and I have copulated most triumphantly!" 

Tony's head makes a hollow sort of thud as it collides with the lab table in front of him.

*

It's not much of a problem for Doctor Foster, it turns out. On questioning, she just grins in this cheshire cat sort of way, and Pepper finds herself wishing that she could have sex that good at least once in her life, though she sort of hopes that she doesn't have to hold up a giant sign about it. "Darcy would probably just laugh at me, but I can't find any grounds to complain, really," Jane says, shrugging. "He claims something about honor and pride or whatever, but I think it's just an exhibitionist thing." 

Pepper realizes that maybe the esoteric little smile could be taken as proof of Foster's own slightly gleeful exhibitionist thing. Which wasn't new information to anyone, the number of times team members had walked in on the pair of them making out like a couple of horny high schoolers. Clearing her throat diplomatically, she ventures, "Right. Maybe keep the announcements down to once a night?"

*

It takes a good few weeks before any of them notice, due to a handful of battles keeping then busy and the fractured sort of off-com communication that happens between them. Most of the team have been alone for so long that no number of team building pillow fights can make group meals feel more natural, even this far down the line. Clint, for one, prefers his recon spot in the rafters of the gym to the kitchen table. Unless Steve cooks. 

The problem, though, is Steve's spaghetti is really good--like, get out of the way grandma's recipe good--so it's not until his gaze rises from the plate as Natasha jostles his elbow--presumably something about using too much parmasan, which is an impossibility and a lie--that Clint happens to notice that Stark is wearing a goddamn viking corsage.

"What the hell is that?" he points with the fork, mouth still half-full of cheese-encrusted spagetti. No one responds for a moment, used to ignoring this sort of behavior, until Natasha notices too. 

"Gift from Thor, Stark?" she says, suspicious. Most people can't tell when Nat is suspicious, but Clint can. He's considered doing an encyclopedia. Field guide. Whatever the hell you'd call it. 

Stark actually blushes, apparently having forgotten that he had the damn thing on, but offers no explanation beyond mumbling something vague about diplomatic visits to Asgard. 

Thor bellows with laughter. "More than diplomatic, friend Stark. These courting gifts will bring you luck and protection. If you belive such things." 

On the phrase 'courting gifts', the spaghetti lodges in Clint's throat and he chokes so hard that someone almost pays attention to his frantic motioning of the universal symbol for heimlich maneuver. " 'oo in their right mind would court Stark?" he manages, eventually. 

Stark's slightly stupified face indicates that he hadn't heard the word 'courting' yet, either, and was more than vaguely unsettled by the term. Still, he makes no move to take off the little bracelet of white flowers, and instead leaves the table mumbling something about batty aliens and their rituals.

*

At what point exactly they'd all joined Thor in the whole offerings thing, no one could quite remember. But Natasha was the first. 

Not because she bought into that Valhalla talk. Just... after weeks of watching Thor scoop the first bite of his pizza onto a plate, then burn the lot, she found herself following suit. It wasn't something they questioned, or tried to rationalize. If there was some eternal feast going on up there...well, they all knew a couple of the people sitting at it. And watching that smoke rise in the wake of the lightning strike Thor called down was almost like eating with them again. 

Maybe things had just stopped surprising the Avengers, really.

*

The alarms are blaring from every corner of the room, and Clint almost loses his grip on the curling iron--almost being the operative word, since there's no such thing as a sharpshooter with a bad grip. Bruce just sighs planitively as the archer curses and sets back to work on Natasha's hair with a renewed grumble of discontent. Across the room, Tony flat-out refuses to join in with what he calls 'braid-y alien ridiculousness', though those mysterious courting gifts of his haven't stopped appearing at random, but he's taken the opportunity as it arose to arrange Steve's gelled hair into something that the good captain probably doesn't realize resembles a mohawk. 

Bruce just sighs again and savors the firm pressure of Natasha's slim fingers arranging his wild curls into petite braids. It's not like the Hulk minds, anyway, and Thor seems to get a kick out of it that would make Bruce suspicious if some part of him didn't enjoy the Avengers pre-game show. 

Any minute now, they'll get a, well, _furious_ video call from the director, and Tony will mute him, and the team will watch Fury's soundless rage with matching smiles of faint amusement on their faces as Thor continues to hum and braid his long golden hair like some kind of male viking Rapunzel. 

It's weird, adjusting to life as a team. But at least their jolliest member agreed to stop smashing cups. And Bruce can't say he minds how beautiful Natasha looks with her hair up. Or down. Or any way at all. 

At this rate, he realises, with nothing more than a faint twinge of annoyance, it's going to be damned hard to get angry later. 

*

"A beauty, no?" Lady Sif twirls the sword expertly, a fierce pride in her eyes. "Her name is Hneitir." Natasha smiles beatifically, mostly because she's not sure whether she can actually pronounce the word herself. At her slightly strained grin, Sif shrugs and amends, "Biter." 

And then looks expectantly to Natasha, who blinks, taken aback at her own surprise. "I... don't really use swords," she says, and the warrior snorts. 

"No, but surely you do not fight only hand-to-hand, like the green beserker?" 

"None of us do," she says truthfully, uncertain where this is leading. "I mean, Thor has Mjölnir, and..."

Nodding expectantly, Sif moves closer, and Natasha realizes exactly how much like two teenaged boys in a locker room comparing dick sizes her life is becoming. "This is the Widow's Bite," she fibs, naming the shocking bracelets on the spot and mentally patting herself on the back. "Ordinarily I save them for special occasions, but if you have a problem with hand fighting I can give you a closer look." 

Sif looks mildly impressed with the threat and totally fascinated by the name. "Poison?"

"If Thor calls down poison from the sky, sure." 

A faint nose of appreciation like Tony and Bruce make over a paricularly challenging science problem escapes her. "And your team? Do their weapons match yours?" 

Ah. Natasha does love a good dose of posturing. Sitting up taller and putting on her best lie face, she shakes her head sadly. 

*

"What, so our weapons have names now?" Clint confronts her, fresh off a crowd of manic Asgardians asking for a demonstration of his bow and its legendary power. 

"I got in a pissing contest with Sif," she admits. 

"Freedom," she can hear Steve murmur to himself, casting an admiring glance down at his newly-kenned shield. "I like it."

*

"So I guess what my question is," says Tony, his fingers tracing equations over the bare skin of Loki's stomach, "Is exactly how you managed to rope Thor into playing along."

Snorting, Loki takes the hand in his own. "I did seduce you fair and square, Stark, it just happens --"

"That the methods were complete bullshit? I mean, viking flower bracelets?" 

The trickster makes as if to smother him with a pillow at the interruption. "I don't recall your making any complaints."

"Maybe I just appreciate a good prank."

"As does Thor," Loki murmurs, then smiles wickedly when he admits, "Did you imagine that the both of us were strangers to this realm and its conventions?A prince knows diplomacy."

"I _knew_ it!" Tony sits up abruptly, nearly throwing Loki out of bed with the sudden motion. "I totally called it! You owe me fifty bucks, Barton!"

Loki lifts a finger to his lips, dragging Tony back down with a seductive murmer of, "Stark..."

Interested, Tony leans in. "Yeah?"

"I don't know that I'm quite ready," he says, half-smiling as he drew te Avenger in for a kiss, "to abandon the game, as of yet. Thor might be so disappointed." 

"Yeah," Tony echoes, a little distracted, then pulls away, scandalized. "Oh, don't you fucking _dare_..."

Moving like a bullet to lean out the door in all his nude glory, Loki shouts down the hall, "I'm pleased to announce to you all that I've bedded Tony Stark!" 

"Goddamn prankster aliens," Tony mumbles into his pillows, as the faint sound of various Avengers running into walls in shock and horror echo in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> They still do the cup-smashing thing, though.
> 
> My addition to that whole cultural differences trope and all the wierd shit Asgardians must do all the time. I mean, they could literally get away with pretty much anything because plausible deniability stretches pretty goddamn far when we're talking other species and diplomatic immunity is a bitch.


End file.
